The Lost Door

by Marc Buhmann

  “No doubt.”

  “Emily—”

  “Is not my problem. Besides, you have no proof she’s in any danger—”

  “I know.”

  “Mother’s intuition?” he asked with disdain.

  She frowned. “I know the same way I know about that box you’re carrying. The toy soldier within. I know just like I do the reason you left River Bend in the first place, the feeling of abandonment.” She stepped closer. “I know because I’ve been there. Just like I know all that, I know my daughter is in danger, so if you want to call it mother’s intuition that’s fine, but I believe it’s something more.”

  “Why did you come back here?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not sure. I felt something pulling at me. When my husband and I came here for vacation it felt like home.”

  It had been the same for him in many ways. When he’d left River Bend he’d felt aloof, and it wasn’t until he’d returned, no matter the pain, he’d still felt at home. He knew then that this was where he belonged.

  Still, he had his own past—his own demons—that he needed closure on, and didn’t want to get involved in someone else’s.

  “The best I can do is get you home,” he asked. “If you need a ride, that is.”

  Claire deflated a little, but nodded. “A lift would be good.”

  Together they made their way to the exit.

  * * *

  Room 217 had good lighting from the beautiful day filtering in through the open window, and while the fluorescent lights were on they weren’t necessary. The morning news was on the television, its volume barely audible. White noise is what Stavic figured. Probably using it to keep the old man company.

  Stavic wondered if he should be feeling something. A vision within a dream was a far cry from fact.

  “Father,” he mumbled, the word sound foreign. He looked down at the frail old man. He’d met him only briefly but knew more of his past than he should thanks to… what? A psychic connection? What was it they’d experienced? If it hadn’t been a dream and was in fact real then there was a good chance that woman’s daughter was in trouble.

  He sat in the chair next to the bed, stared at David. Everything he’d recently experienced screamed insanity. It made no logical sense. How could he share memories with complete strangers? So odd, too, that they had a connection. He hated enigmas.

  You’re a cop. Figure it out.

  Assuming everything they’d experienced was true—and he had no reason to doubt it—then it wasn’t much of a stretch to assume they’d all been pulled into some web that revolved around David’s wife. She seemed to be the catalyst. What was her name?

  Lilly.

  Then there was her husband, a man she’d met as a teenager. They fell in love and got married; nothing unusual there. DeMarcus pursued her from this other place—Turmoore. Why hadn’t DeMarcus aged? He should be as old as the frail man before him. Unless that place—the cabin—stopped aging. Either there was something about that place or DeMarcus himself. Since Lilly had aged his assumption was it was that place.

  Stavic ran a hand across his face, massaged his eyes. This was all maddeningly confusing. No matter… he wasn’t going to accomplish anything feeling the way he did at the moment. He needed to go home, shower, take some of his non-prescription drugs, and figure out his next move. Maybe work in a couple hours of sleep too.

  Time’s ticking.

  He decided it could tick a little while longer.

  * * *

  “Emily?” Claire called out. She knew she wasn’t here; the house felt empty. She ran up the stairs, the footfalls echoing through the stillness.

  Claire pushed opened Emily’s bedroom door. The bed was made, room tidy. Nothing amiss.

  She made her bed before heading out this morning is all. Claire knew it was a lie the moment the thought popped into her head. The room had an unslept in feel. No… Emily hadn’t been here since she’d left last night.

  She’d tried repeatedly on her trip home to get through to Emily, and each time it rolled over to voice-mail.

  Claire beat back the panic. How was she supposed to track her down?

  Stavic. Maybe she could appeal to his to serve and protect instinct. Maybe he could do something if she could get through to him. She ran downstairs, pulled out the phone book and looked up the police department’s number.

  “River Bend Police Department. How may I direct your call?”

  “Detective Stavic please.”

  “Please hold.”

  Soft music floated through the ear piece. She knew it was meant to keep her calm but she was anything but. There was a click and the music cut out.

  “I’m sorry, but he’s not in today. Is there something I can help you with?”

  Not unless you’re willing to give me his address. “No thank you.”

  “Would you like his voice-mail?”

  “Please.”

  “One moment.”

  There was another click as the connection transferred. She was greeted by a robotic female voice until Stavic said his name. Weird going from robot girl to Stavic. A final tone sounded alerting her to start. “Hi. This is Claire.” How to word it? “You may not know me, but I really need to talk to you… it’s about Emily. I came home and she’s gone. I could really use your help. Please call me back.” She gave him her number and hung up.

  Claire’s next call was to Emily’s two closest friends. The first didn’t answer, and the second said she hadn’t heard from her in a couple days. Claire thanked her and hung up.

  What else could she do? If Stavic was out for the day he probably wouldn’t check his voice-mail until he went back in. She opened the phone book and flipped to ‘S’. A quick scan revealed one Stavic, N. in River Bend. She dialed the number and waited. A recorded message answered, and it was the same voice. Hanging up, she tore the page out of the book. Since her car was gone, either at the impound or junkyard, she needed a ride. Claire flipped to the yellow pages and looked for a cab company and called one. She was told one would be there in fifteen minutes—plenty of time to throw on a fresh pair of clothes.

  She ran to her room and changed in two minutes flat. In her hurry her leg knocked over the box with DEVON on it, the contents spilling out.

  “Shit,” she said, kneeled, and threw everything in haphazardly. As she tossed in the manila envelope the divorce papers flew out. “God dammit!” she screamed. Why was it when you were in a rush everything seemed to try and slow you down? She picked up the papers and was about to toss them in the box when two words at the top of the page caught her eye.

  Death Certificate.

  What? She shuffled the papers, flipped them over. This had to be a joke! Devon wasn’t dead! An asshole, maybe, but not dead!

  Claire looked over the page again and saw his name. The date of death was… No. It couldn’t be.

  She searched her memory. But… he abandoned them after the accident. But according to this he died around the same time. She couldn’t remember the exact date but knew it was around what was printed on the certificate.

  He left you. You divorced him.

  But he was dead.

  Has to be a joke.

  Yet she knew it wasn’t. It felt right. All this time she’d hated him for leaving her and Emily but he hadn’t. And suddenly it was as if a veil dropped and the painful memories of what had transpired returned.

  She had become increasingly paranoid he was having an affair, and she had confronted him in the car about it. The paranoia was from her own insecurities, the feeling she wasn’t beautiful or sexy enough, that he would find someone else on his business trips. The poisonous thoughts contaminated her the nights she lie awake alone in their bed, wondering…

  She’d started to drink to curb the fear, and that night at the party it escalated. She’d yelled at him in the car, then slapped him, then attacked him. But that was where her memory changed. He hadn’t just disappeared and run off like she thought, but had been thrown from the car
. She saw it now, his body slamming into the steering wheel, blood exploding from his mouth.

  Oh God. It was her fault. His death… it was on her.

  How had she forgotten? Why?

  Tears flowed down her cheeks, fifteen years of emotional buildup pouring out.

  Her husband hadn’t cheated on her or abandoned her like she thought. Her husband was dead.

  Outside she heard the faint sound of a car horn, then her doorbell, but she needed time to process this, needed time to understand, to accept.

  Claire needed time to wake.

  * * *

  After dropping Claire off Justin took Willem to the auto pound where he got his car. Justin wanted to follow Willem home, but he wouldn’t have it. After he promised to call Justin later that night, Justin begrudgingly drove off.

  Now Willem was home and try as he might Willem could not fall asleep. His head was spinning. His mother, his brothers, the old man…

  David Rottingham.

  He turned on his back, stared at the ceiling.

  Sleep unobtainable, Willem sat up and pulled out the box. He was still kicking himself for not thinking to look in the junk drawer when he’d gotten back from visiting Elliott. Where else did you put shit you didn’t know what to do with? Idiot.

  He didn’t know where the key was now—probably washed away when he fell—but, thankfully, he hadn’t relocked the box after he’d rediscovered it. Willem opened it and stared at the contents.

  He lifted the metal ring out of the box wondering what had made him keep it. Just a piece of a missing cabin, yet when he’d found it he’d felt something in it, felt it now in fact. A warmth. He set it to the side.

  There was the flask Elliott had added. He ran his thumb across the engraving: Amor Meus. He never had learned its meaning. He twisted the cap off, sniffed the opening. While it was empty he still smelled a hint of fifty-year-old booze.

  The lure was still there, exactly as he remembered it. The watch Elliott had stored here was gone, then he remembered Beth placing it in Elliott’s pocket at the funeral. He wondered when Elliott had come back.

  Next he picked up the photo of all of them smiling at the park. He remembered the day being warm and sunny. Their mother had packed a picnic lunch—blanket and all—and brought their new Polaroid camera. Their father had driven them to Blue Gill Park, a grassy area with a playground next to the river. He’d asked a passerby to take a photo who’d obliged.

  Happy. This is how his family should have been, what he’d longed to return to, if not for his father.

  A flicker of remembrance emerged and Willem grasped at it. Something about the picnic. His father… It was around that time his father changed. He stared at the photo. It had faded considerably over the years, the colors bleeding to orange and yellow. What looked like a tiny pin-sized lens flare hovered over his head. He’d forgotten about that, and how he’d found it oddly surreal.

  What had happened during the picnic, or shortly thereafter, that caused his father to start hating him? What had changed?

  Anyone that may have been able to tell him—his mother, his father, Elliott—were dead. He was the last of his family and had no answer.

  Sometimes you just have to let it go, Willem.

  Maybe Elliott was right. He’d hung onto this for so long it had infected him, allowed the anger and hate and all the emotional baggage to dictate his life. Well, no more.

  His eye wandered back to the ring, picked it up. His finger traced its smoothness.

  DeMarcus. A man who hadn’t aged. He’d only seen him from a distance and that had been when he’d been drunk and stoned. Even then that grin had made him uneasy, and he could only imagine what his presence was like sober. Definitely something off with him, something dangerous.

  He thought about David and Lilly’s confrontation with DeMarcus and his associate. If Emily had gotten involved with him she was definitely out of her element.

  Demarcus’ associate. There was something about him…

  And then he suddenly knew where his father disappeared to all those years ago. Somehow he’d become involved with DeMarcus.

  He stared down at the ring, his finger tracing.

  And then suddenly he knew where he could find them. All of them. It was so obvious.

  * * *

  Stavic was tying his shoe when he heard a knock. Who the hell? He wasn’t expecting anyone. He went to the door and opened it. Claire looked like hell, her nervous eyes bloodshot.

  “Why am I not surprised?” he said.

  “What?”

  After the things he’d seen, the least of which was discovering his father was still alive, seeing Claire was not surprising. And if Claire existed that meant Willem did too. He was sure it was only a matter of time before their paths crossed.

  “Nothing. Come in,” Stavic said and stood to the side.

  “What happened to you?” she asked as she entered his apartment. She tried to hide her shock and failed. It sounded false even to her.

  “Doesn’t matter. What can I do for you Claire?”

  “My daughter’s gone.” She wanted to cry, to shake him, to make him understand. “She’s not answering her phone, she’s not at home, and none of her friends know where she is.”

  “Emily, right?” He sighed. “What makes you think I can help?”

  “The cabin. That’s where DeMarcus is, and you know where it is.”

  He scowled at her.

  “Please!” she begged.

  He ran a hand through his damp hair. Daylight was burning, and he wanted to get out of here. But first he needed something. Coke was off the table—he wouldn’t do that with someone in his home—but he could have some liquid courage. He went to the fridge and pulled out a beer. When he’d collected his thoughts after a long drink, he said, “Everything that’s happening revolves around David, Lilly, and DeMarcus. DeMarcus was holed up at the cabin in the past, and I’ve no doubt that’s where he is now. It’s just…”

  “What?”

  “I was there a few days ago, and the place was deserted. No one had been there in decades.” Not a complete lie, he just didn’t want to talk about the body.

  “You were going to go there. Before I showed up that’s where you were headed.”

  “Yes.”

  Claire perked up. “I’m coming with you then.”

  “Nuh-uh. No way. Too dangerous. Look at my face for Christ sake! DeMarcus did this to me.”

  “And he’s got my daughter.”

  Stavic considered debating her but realized it was futile.

  “Fine,” he said begrudgingly. “Let’s get going.”

  * * *

  Willem was stopped at a light. Coming from the opposite direction was a Ford Explorer and, behind the wheel, Stavic. Claire sat next to him in the passenger seat. He flashed his lights at them, got their attention, and pointed to the Dale’s Supermarket lot. They parked next to each other, and Willem rolled down the window.

  “Hey, hey, the gangs all here,” Stavic said with mild amusement. His eyes flicked up. “What happened to you?”

  “I could ask you the same thing. Where you headed?”

  “On our way to find Emily. Hop in.”

  Willem killed the engine, grabbed the metal ring on the passenger seat, and got out. He didn’t bother to lock the doors; River Bend was still small and friendly enough that people trusted each other not to mess with someone else’s stuff.

  “Where were you headed?” Stavic asked as Willem slid into the backseat.

  “Mr. Rottingham’s place.”

  Stavic turned and looked back. “Really? Why?”

  Willem smiled. “Forty-six and two. 462. It’s his address.”

  “Jesus. A fucking address? And what’s there?”

  “Lilly’s necklace.” Stavic gave him a look, so he continued. “The necklace was the key to unlocking the passageway to Turmoore.”

  “What makes you so sure?” Claire wanted to know.

  “We all saw what ha
ppened in the past. When I went there with William the cabin was missing. A few years later Lilly and David and their friend went there to save you.” He nodded toward Claire. “Lilly did… something… and the place materialized. Right? I don’t know how it was hidden before or why it’s not now, but that cabin is the doorway.”

  “I’ve been to the cabin. There’s nothing there; no door, no lock, no nothing.”

  “That’s why we need the necklace.”

  Claire cut in. “I still don’t understand what all this has to do with Emily. Why does DeMarcus want her?”

  “She obviously has some part to play,” Willem said. “Let’s just hope we’re not too late.”

  twelve

  There was a gloominess when they pulled up to the old Rottingham house. Gray clouds were moving in blanketing what was a fantastic blue autumn sky in dreariness. The yard was unkempt, and the once immaculate home faded. Stavic felt uneasy, as if something was moving in to intercept them.

  “Dear Lord,” Claire mumbled as she took it in. “I haven’t been back here in years. It used to be so cared for; my father was always jealous of it.” She glanced to the house next door. “That’s where I grew up,” she said, pointing.

  “Do you feel it?” Willem asked as he stared out the window.

  Stavic waited a full three seconds before glancing over his shoulder. “What?”

  “It’s like a… presence.”

  Stavic figured Willem was just having a heebie-jeebies moment until Claire chimed in. “I feel it too.”

  He looked back at the home, stared at it. The way the shadows fell on the windows made it look like the house had eyes, the door its mouth. It was unsettling, as if the house was warning them away. But a presence? No… must be their imaginations. “Like it or not one of us has to go,” he said. “If you two want to stay here that’s fine. I’ll go. You said this necklace was in the basement? Anything more specific than that?”

  Willem shook his head. “No, but we should all go.”

  “Stay behind me,” Stavic said as he took the lead. He unholstered his weapon and walked up the front door. It came as no surprise it was locked. “Around back.”